


Pining, Perchance...

by RonnaWren (orphan_account)



Series: The Lives and Loves of Republicans [2]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: 2012 Election, Everything is unrequited, M/M, Nostalgia for Simpler Times, Untagged Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9949172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: Ryan, Romney, and Priebus, and their torrid, one-sided affairs of the heart.OrEveryone's in love with Paul Ryan; he remains oblivious to an impossible degree.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for slight Romney-esque homophobia. Also, I should probably mention that I don't condone infidelity.

PROLOGUE, OCTOBER 2012

Joe is like an eloquent Teddy bear, Paul thinks as the Vice President stands opposite him, adeptly ripping to shreds every policy Paul attempts to defend. He wishes he could stride purposefully across to Joe's podium and taste those silly, logical Democratic ideals as they leave his mouth. But decorum must be observed, and Joe—though far from uptight—would never give him the time of day for such antics.

Paul feels insignificant next to the Vice President, who has decades on him. He is a child—an upstart, really—playing an old man's game. What business does he have here? Though the better question would be: how the hell did he come to stand here, anyway?

THREE Months EARLIER

"While I always enjoy our (rare) conversations, and wish fervently we had more of them," Reince Priebus mused, "Why specifically did you want to meet with me?" He watched Mitt like a hawk from across the table, his dark brows furrowed.

"I have a few questions about one of the individuals in final consideration for my running mate," Mitt replied.

Reince stiffened imperceptibly, as if he already suspected to whom the questions pertained. "All right. What would I possibly know that your people haven't found in their vetting?"

Mitt smiled tightly. "Well, you're particularly close with Mr. Ryan, therefore I thought to get a better sense of his capabilities from you."

"His record speaks for itself," said Reince, breaking eye contact to inspect a slight divot in the table's surface. "Elected to the House at 28; known for his budget and deficit legislation, as well as his innovative ideas on how to humanely kill Social Security. What more could you possibly want?"

"Who is Paul Ryan, Reince?" Mitt asked quietly, thinking longingly of running his fingers through Paul's hair, of gazing into those cerulean eyes. "I... I need to know."

"He is—" Reince broke off, becoming even more interested in the table's wear and tear. "He is the Party's best hope. He's a family man. He's a good friend. He's sharp. Maybe there are better mainstream choices for a running mate, like Christie or Portman, but he deserves it."

More like he can do no wrong in your eyes, Mitt thought peevishly. Also, stop giving me unsolicited advice. Aloud he said, "Ah. Well, thank you for your time, Reince. This has helped immensely."

Reince nodded in acknowledgment. "Fantastic. Um, you know, I wouldn't mind being more involved with the campaign—"

"Sorry, got to run," Mitt said, cutting him off before he could offer—again—to get in the way of the campaign staffers.

*

Of course, Paul knew he was in consideration for Romney's running mate. The amount of extraneous information he had to track down irked him, and the way all his seemingly insignificant business interactions were scrutinized put any of the digging his self-oppo teams had conducted over the years to shame. But who was he to complain?

In late July, Romney asked to meet with him. This wasn't their first meeting, but the atmosphere was heavier than in their previous associations. Romney paced about the room, his severe features revealing nothing. Paul watched his progression nervously, wondering if the annoyances and indignities he'd suffered over the last several months would be rewarded.

"I expect you know why you're here," Romney began, coming to a halt in front of Paul's chair, fingers twisting and untwisting somewhat hypnotically, Paul thought, in some confusion.

"I expect so," he agreed.

"You are more or less my final choice for running mate," Romney said, "though I'm giving a couple others a last overview, just to be sure."

"Okay." How should he react? A reserved "okay" wouldn't cut it. "Um, thank you, Governor. This is an honor—"

"Don't thank me just yet," Romney cautioned, smiling. "Have to appear as thorough as possible with the final vetting, in order to avoid criticisms from ... certain people."

Certain people, meaning moderates who would balk at anyone too far right, and Tea Partiers who would bitch at anyone too moderate. Paul wanted to massage his forehead, but managed to keep his hands folded in his lap.

"I'll know within a couple days, and we'll make the announcement around the 7th of August. Sound good to you?"

"Yeah—yes, it sounds great," Paul replied, wondering when it would be appropriate to whoop. Meh, probably during his mid-afternoon work-out, which always helped with the day's emotional build-up.

"Um, Governor?" he said, as Romney prepared to dismiss him. "Why me, exactly?"

Romney's expression softened. "Why not you, Congressman? I cannot imagine finishing this campaign with anyone else by my side."

Surely expressing such sentiments was routine, yet Paul felt himself going red. Ugh. Reince probably had something to do with this. What on earth had he said to make the governor so complimentary?

As Paul left the room, Mitt almost called him back, to admit aloud the true reason he had settled on him. But he held his tongue, and the confession and the recollection of the conversation with a clearly besotted Priebus remained unspoken.

*

Conventions were tedious things, Paul lamented, made even more so by his elevated status. People that before greeted him cordially now spoke to him with unbridled enthusiasm. "Congressman, what 1so your view'''?" "Mr. Ryan, it's wonderful to meet you!" "Congressman, can I get a picture?" (the last from one of the youngest delegates, whose excitement was boundless).

Meanwhile, Reince acted about as he always did, though Paul often noticed him giving Romney weird looks. "Is everything all right?" he finally asked.

"Of course," Reince replied dismissively. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. You just seem a little annoyed or something."

"Nope. Just enjoying this august gathering of Party regulars," said Reince. "It really is great. Just, you know, glad it only happens every four years."

"Here, here," Paul agreed.

But despite his assurances, Paul remained confused, because Romney looked at him the way Reince always had, with that strange wistful warmth. What did it mean?

*

"Oh, hey, Governor," Reince said in surprise, looking up from his moody contemplation of the dregs of his fourth? or was it fifth? drink.

"Let's not beat around the bush, Reince," Mitt said, settling next to him at the sparsely-populated hotel bar. "I know you have ... intense feelings for Paul. I do also. He's never going to return them."

"You think I haven't figured that out after all the years I've known him? Anyway, what's your point?" Reince asked, annoyed Mitt had the gall to bring this up, especially when he was bordering on drunk and Mitt was cold sober.

"I have a proposition for you," Mitt answered, after a pregnant pause.

"Okay."

"You want to be more involved with the campaign?"

"That would be nice." _Where was he going with this?_

Mitt placed a hand on Reince's knee. "Have sex with me. Distract me from what I'll never have. You won't have it either, so we may as well make the best of it."

Reince spit out his drink in shock. "What?" he spluttered. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. I'd never joke about something so sinful."

No, the ascetic Mitt Romney had little capability in that sort of a jest. "If this gets out, both are careers are toast," Reince snapped, wishing he had as much power in this situation as he pretended. "But yes, I will take you up on your ... offer. Now?"

"Now," Mitt agreed. "Before I lose the nerve."

Reince rose, leaning against the table while the room ceased spinning. "Your room or mine?" he murmured, as they made their way to the elevator.

"Mine. Anne's out with a friend for the evening."

And so the night ended: Mitt and Reince, Reince and Mitt, bound by their shared disappointment and their intense dislike of one another, rolling about like rabbits until they collapsed into each other's arms, utterly spent.

"He's got a thing for Biden," Reince mumbled into Mitt's shoulder.

"Darling fool," Mitt sighed.

"Mmm," Reince blearily agreed.

*

"My friend here wants you to believe that people getting assistance are 'takers,' but that isn't right. You know these people. I know them. Friends, neighbors, parents!" Joe shook his head sadly. "You can do better," he told the silent audience, though he watched Ryan.

And oh, what was this? Ryan looked like he wanted to agree, but held back, his eyes downcast, a faint pink flush in his cheeks. Goodness! The congressman is attracted to him. Cute. Now, if only such things mattered, then perhaps there could yet have been hope for Paul Ryan, the pride of Janesville, who was like a fractured reflection of Joe's younger self. Instead, innocents would continue to be hurt, because of the heartless ideals this man pursued.

America ain't stupid, Joe assured himself. This kid's plans will remain unrealized.

EPILOGUE, DECEMBER 2016

If Reince had to choose between Mitt and Donald, he thinks, he'd choose Mitt for general aesthetics and Donald for... well... Trump won. Mitt didn't. But Mitt had high-minded, religious values, something the country's greatest mistake would never dream to possess.

Seriously, though, why bother comparing them like this? Because the better question was: "Why did I fuck my presidential nominees? Haley Barber would never have done that" which he answers demonstratively by hitting his head against the wall behind him. (“Ouch! Damn!)


End file.
